practically falls out of the trees here. There’s no need to be out this—”
“Not marijuana. Grass. A special kind of grass.”
“Ho-kay,” he said.
“Look, forget that. Can you help me?”
“Sir, I don’t really have any guidance.”
“Any what?”
“Guidance, sir. I can’t talk to the media.”
Donk always admired military men, young military men in particular, for their peculiarly unsullied minds. “I’m not looking for an interview. My friend has malaria. He’s back in General Mohammed’s village. He’s dying.”
“Sir, be advised that these mountains are not safe for civilians. They’re crawling with hostiles. And I don’t mean to sound like a hard-ass, but I’m not really authorized to use this radio for anything other than ordering air strikes. We’re doing pest control, sir, and I strongly recommend you get back to that village.”
“Where’s your commanding officer?”
“He’s in Mazar-i-Sharif, sir.”
“Lieutenant Marty, right?”
The commando paused. “I’m not at liberty to say, sir.”
“Look, do you have any malaria medicine? Antibiotics? Anything you have. Believe me when I say it’s an emergency.”
The commando pulled back on the reins. The horse turned with the finicky heaviness particular to its species, and the commando started off.
Donk was not surprised. “This is all about reporters fucking you guys over in Vietnam, isn’t it?” he called after him. “Well, you should know I was about six when Saigon fell. Were you even born?”
The commando stopped and turned back to him. “Leave this area, sir. Now.”
Donk saluted the commando, who politely returned the salute and ya’d his horse to a full gallop. The cool thin dust swallowed them both just before they would have vanished over the nearest hill’s lip. Donk asked Hassan to inform Black Beard and Red Beard that his mission was now under the protection of the American military, owners of fearsome fighter planes, magical horseback summoners of aerial bombs, benevolent providers of PX-surplus camouflage. Neither Red Beard nor Black Beard had much of anything to say after that.
Shortly after 4 p.m. they found the valley where the grass was supposed to grow, a large scooped-out gouge of grayish sand and brown rocky soil amid a ragged perimeter of half a dozen steep hills. A long twisty road wended through the valley and disappeared into an identically shady pass at each end. The hill they were now atop had provided them the least hospitable, most distinctly mountainous trek yet. Its top ridge was cold, windy, and dustless. As they stood in the sunlight looking down into the valley, Donk saw why the commando had wanted him to return to General Mohammed’s village. Along the valley’s road was a smudged line of charcoal-colored transport trucks and pickups. Black Beard withdrew from one of his satchels a pair of binoculars. After having a look he handed the binoculars without comment to Donk. They were, Donk saw, cheap enough to have been pulled from a cereal box. Nonetheless, they helped him discern that the smudges were blast marks; the dark charcoal color could be credited to the fact that each vehicle had been incinerated from the outside in. It took them another twenty minutes to climb down into the valley, and they walked along the road’s wreckage as warily and silently as animals. The bombing had not happened terribly recently. Not a single piece of hardware was smoking, and the truck husks had the brittle, crumbly look of a scorched old log one cleared from a well-trafficked campsite’s pit before building a new fire. The wreckage looked picked over, and the shrapnel was in careful little piles. Black Beard and Red Beard muttered to themselves.
“What are they saying?” Donk asked Hassan.
Hassan shook his head. “Their prayers for the dead.”
“But these men were their enemies.”
“Of course,” Hassan said, looking at Donk hatefully.
Donk approached the bombed convoy’s lead
“Not marijuana. Grass. A special kind of grass.”
“Ho-kay,” he said.
“Look, forget that. Can you help me?”
“Sir, I don’t really have any guidance.”
“Any what?”
“Guidance, sir. I can’t talk to the media.”
Donk always admired military men, young military men in particular, for their peculiarly unsullied minds. “I’m not looking for an interview. My friend has malaria. He’s back in General Mohammed’s village. He’s dying.”
“Sir, be advised that these mountains are not safe for civilians. They’re crawling with hostiles. And I don’t mean to sound like a hard-ass, but I’m not really authorized to use this radio for anything other than ordering air strikes. We’re doing pest control, sir, and I strongly recommend you get back to that village.”
“Where’s your commanding officer?”
“He’s in Mazar-i-Sharif, sir.”
“Lieutenant Marty, right?”
The commando paused. “I’m not at liberty to say, sir.”
“Look, do you have any malaria medicine? Antibiotics? Anything you have. Believe me when I say it’s an emergency.”
The commando pulled back on the reins. The horse turned with the finicky heaviness particular to its species, and the commando started off.
Donk was not surprised. “This is all about reporters fucking you guys over in Vietnam, isn’t it?” he called after him. “Well, you should know I was about six when Saigon fell. Were you even born?”
The commando stopped and turned back to him. “Leave this area, sir. Now.”
Donk saluted the commando, who politely returned the salute and ya’d his horse to a full gallop. The cool thin dust swallowed them both just before they would have vanished over the nearest hill’s lip. Donk asked Hassan to inform Black Beard and Red Beard that his mission was now under the protection of the American military, owners of fearsome fighter planes, magical horseback summoners of aerial bombs, benevolent providers of PX-surplus camouflage. Neither Red Beard nor Black Beard had much of anything to say after that.
Shortly after 4 p.m. they found the valley where the grass was supposed to grow, a large scooped-out gouge of grayish sand and brown rocky soil amid a ragged perimeter of half a dozen steep hills. A long twisty road wended through the valley and disappeared into an identically shady pass at each end. The hill they were now atop had provided them the least hospitable, most distinctly mountainous trek yet. Its top ridge was cold, windy, and dustless. As they stood in the sunlight looking down into the valley, Donk saw why the commando had wanted him to return to General Mohammed’s village. Along the valley’s road was a smudged line of charcoal-colored transport trucks and pickups. Black Beard withdrew from one of his satchels a pair of binoculars. After having a look he handed the binoculars without comment to Donk. They were, Donk saw, cheap enough to have been pulled from a cereal box. Nonetheless, they helped him discern that the smudges were blast marks; the dark charcoal color could be credited to the fact that each vehicle had been incinerated from the outside in. It took them another twenty minutes to climb down into the valley, and they walked along the road’s wreckage as warily and silently as animals. The bombing had not happened terribly recently. Not a single piece of hardware was smoking, and the truck husks had the brittle, crumbly look of a scorched old log one cleared from a well-trafficked campsite’s pit before building a new fire. The wreckage looked picked over, and the shrapnel was in careful little piles. Black Beard and Red Beard muttered to themselves.
“What are they saying?” Donk asked Hassan.
Hassan shook his head. “Their prayers for the dead.”
“But these men were their enemies.”
“Of course,” Hassan said, looking at Donk hatefully.
Donk approached the bombed convoy’s lead
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